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There were dark rims under her eyes, soft now with unshed tears. " "I'll bet she still smells to heaven with sour coconut. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. "You mistake,—you are mine. The blast once more swept over the agitated river: whirled off the sheets of foam, scattered them far and wide in rain-drops, and left the raging torrent blacker than before. Her bonnet dropped off and was trampled into the gutter.
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